


the forth night

by The_Circus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Sad Story, Suicidal Thoughts, john watson falls to pieces, mentions of euthanasia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:58:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Circus/pseuds/The_Circus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For three nights after, John does not sleep, nor does he speak a word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the forth night

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the complete opposite of MSD. John falls to pieces. The first line has been circling in my head for the past three days, so this is it getting out.

 

For three nights after, John does not sleep, nor does he speak a word.

The first he spends staring at the wall of the lock up, five other men rowdy and drunk and categorically Leaving Him Alone after seeing something in him. John doesn’t know how they can see anything in him, he is empty, screaming and empty and maybe that is why they leave him alone. Humanity has always found the abyss the most terrifying of all. Maybe though, their sloshed minds understand that he could break their necks in seconds and still not feel anything.

John does not know how he spends the second night, wandering the streets of London, perhaps, because the next morning his feet are bleeding and his knuckles are too.

The third is spent sitting in his chair in 221B, in the dark, watching the sky cycle from dusk back through to dawn with the weak spring light. Everything is very cold; his skin goosebumps under his shirt and the air in their, his home smells of the bit before mid-winter, the bit where that primal part of you is unsure if you will ever see the sun again. Everything is absence, the absence of sound, of life and John is a lone island in the middle of it all.

He knows that people sit with him on the third day, Mycroft, he thinks, and Mrs Hudson at one point. Mike comes, and stays, a quiet blob of humanity wearing glasses in the corner, sitting on the sofa next to the music stand. John stares at nothing. Abstractly, John knows that he has gotten up to piss at least, and drink something. Water appears by him at some point, and he drinks that. A sandwich too, brought to him by a pixilated version of Mrs Hudson, but when he woodenly tries to eat he can’t, standing and walking to the bathroom where he heaves over the loo, nothing coming up because nothing was there and so he shakes and cramps on the floor.

He takes a shower after that, emerges pink and boiling. He can’t feel it. Ends up sitting nude on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. It is peaceful in here. Ordered. He stays.

At the beginning of the forth night, Mike comes into the room, and Mrs Hudson follows.

"John, mate, you need to take these for me." He gives John two white pills, small and unpromising and John thinks for a second that it is a shame that euthanasia is illegal, isn’t it? Not that it had stopped him, once, when the poor boy had been screaming and screaming and they had been in the middle of no-where and had begged him. He wouldn’t do that to Mike, would he?

John is not sure. John is not sure of anything. John wants it all to go away, forever.

He takes the pills, and is handed a bottle. He drinks from the bottle. Too sweet, fake orange- Lucozade. Yes, he would need the electrolytes.

Everything is a haze. He is detached, floating two centimetres above himself.

"Under the covers, love," he hears Mrs Hudson say, so he gets under the covers. The pillow smells of Sherlock. All he can see is Sherlock, the curve of his shoulders from the back, his eyes, the sparks in his mind _, oh god his eyes they were open and staring and the blood across his face it framed the blue grey his lax hands he didn’t try to grasp back Sherlock would always turn his hand around and hold onto John’s wrist to it was always reciprocal between them, always oh god._

"Oh god," John says, and to his own ears his unused voice sounds like a collapsed marble palace would sound. "Please."

He does not know what he is asking for.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you would like to bother me on tumblr, I am at http://thecircusofme.tumblr.com/ This was posted there first.


End file.
